Barrett's Mixology

By Nicholas Desai | Friday, April 22, 2005

Gimlet

2 oz. Gin
1/2 oz. Rose's lime juice

Stir with ice and strain into a pre-chilled cocktail glass.

Great Aunt Millicent, a vile shrew of a woman, conniving yet dull, hideous to behold and constantly doused with a most rank perfume—I prayed for her demise, almost daily—not least because an unimpeachable source close to her (her lawyer, a chum of mine back at Balliol) had informed me that her snuffing it would swiftly ameliorate my recent financial difficulties . . . where was I? Well, Millicent insisted that I join her for tea at the Albemarle to discuss the little matter of my future after I had unfortunately been sent down from Oxford. (The precipitating incident I cannot recall, though the master's official report was filled with words such as 'lascivious,' 'decolletage' and 'neo-imperialist.') I had planned to spend that lovely spring afternoon getting soused in my drawing-room and assumed that after twenty minutes of nugatory nagging, I could hail a hansom and commence right quick my sixteenth consecutive daily solitary brandy tasting. But as the unsightly widow droned through her fortieth minute with much rhetorical momentum to spare, I realized how easily this potentially memorable afternoon could turn tragically boring if I did not imbibe and quickly.

As she elevated me to the heights of boredom with an ever-expanding anecdote about her cousin's service in the Boer Wars (he had somehow met John Ruskin?), I politely asked the old virago if I might be excused; her Victorian sensibilities precluded further inquiry. I sprinted to the bar and explained to the fellow in charge my desire. Getting a chap tight up in seven minutes is fairly straightforward undertaking— but to make it pleasant and even memorable? That requires skill, which this barman certainly did not lack. The eleven gimlets he so dexterously prepared were strong yet eminently quaffable. Were it not for time considerations, I surely would have continued to destroy those tangy liquid morsels. Thirst more or less quenched, I sauntered back to the trenches. From then on, events took a considerable turn for the better. The previously banal cucumber sandwiches became palatable, the chandeliers shimmered with renewed vigour, my new croquet set arrived from Hindustan that very afternoon, and the following week Millicent perished.

Barrett's Mixology

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